


Laying Ghosts to Rest

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Musketeers Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8606200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: A chance encounter brings back a ghost from Aramis' past, placing the Musketeers in a tenuous position, and threatening their loyalty and their brotherhood. The is an entry for the 2016 musketeers Big Bang Challenge over on Live Journal.





	

[](http://s1043.photobucket.com/user/spok507/media/LGtR%20art_zpsqzi5uwpt.jpg.html)

Laying Ghosts to Rest

The streets of Paris were bustling in the early hours. Aramis weaved his way between two vendors in the crowded market, relishing the smells of the freshly baked bread emanating from them both. A plump older woman smiled at him and he returned it with a tip of his hat as he stopped to admire her goods.

“Could I interest you in some fresh pastries, Monsieur?”

“Ah, if only I had the funds to afford such delicious treats,” he teased. “But a Musketeer’s salary will only stretch so far.” He leaned over and took an appreciative sniff of the soft, warm beignets, sighing in pleasure at the mouthwatering aroma of the sweet pastry. 

The woman grinned her own appreciation at the sight of the handsome Musketeer and held out one of the beignets. “With my compliments.”

Aramis beamed at her as he accepted the pastry, causing a blush to rise on her chubby cheeks. “Madame, your beauty is only exceeded by your generosity.” He took her hand and brushed it with a kiss. “I will relish each and every bite.”

With a giggle that belayed her age, she motioned him along and he bowed to her with a flourish before continuing on his way. He munched on the beignet as he made his way through the rest of the market, trying to keep the groans of pleasure to himself as the warm, airy pastry nearly melted in his mouth. He brushed the crumbs from his beard as he neared the edge of the market. The archway of the garrison loomed in the distance, the soft light of dawn burnishing the normally drab walls with a golden hue. As he stepped onto the cobbled road, a shout echoed from his left. The crowd darted to the sides as two horses pulling a wagon sped down the lane, no driver in sight. 

A woman dressed in a fine cape stood in the center of the road, directly in the line of the wagon, seemingly frozen with fear. Aramis shouted for her to move even as he bolted in her direction, his boots slapping hard against the cobbles as the horses bore down upon her. With a flying leap, he wrapped his arms around her waist, his momentum toppling them forward. He twisted his body, holding her tightly as his shoulder and back made contact with the hard ground, wincing as his head connected with the cold stone. His hat flew from its perch, lost in the press of the horses dashing past. They rolled to a stop on the far side of the road, both shaking and breathing heavily from the rush of their near miss.

After a few moments, Aramis became aware of the voices around them as well as the warmth of the woman’s body pressed against his. With a groan, he forced his aching arms to move. Released from his hold, the woman slipped from his grasp and slid to his side, the folds of her gown twisted between his legs. Her eyes were closed and he rolled with her, cradling her head in one hand as he tapped her cheek with the other.

“Madame?” he called, his medic instincts overpowering his own body’s aches for the moment. “Madame? Can you hear me?”

A crowd had begun to gather and a familiar voice broke through, ordering the curious onlookers to move back and give them some room. Aramis glanced up, relieved to find Porthos’ solid presence bent over him.

“What happened?” the large Musketeer questioned. “You all right?”

Aramis nodded, his attention returning to the woman in his arms as she began to stir. He silently watched as her lids fluttered open, hazel eyes focusing on him in alarm. A fleeting jolt of surprise shot through him as a spark of recognition flashed; the eyes staring back at him were vaguely familiar, though at the moment, he was at a loss to place where he had seen them before.

“What…” the woman moaned, her eyes closing, her brow wrinkling in confusion.

“Easy,” he soothed, running a hand down her arm, aware of the awkwardness of their position, but needing to be sure there was no serious damage before allowing her to move. “Are you in any pain?”

She shook her head, her eyes moving from Aramis to Porthos who was standing over them, then widening as she realized their scandalous predicament.

Aramis felt her tense and guessed at the cause, releasing her from his embrace and pushing himself up with a groan. He was grateful for Porthos’ assistance, tapping the hand his friend placed on his arm to steady him as he got to his feet. The two Musketeers extended their hands, their offers of assistance gratefully accepted. As soon as the woman was steady on her feet, they both stepped back but remained diligent as she leaned forward to brush ineffectively at her soiled skirt and cape.

When she was satisfied with her appearance, she raised her eyes to Aramis and smiled. “It seems I owe you a debt of gratitude, Monsieur.” Despite being a bit disheveled, she didn’t seem to be hurt and Aramis sighed in relief, finally relaxing his stance. 

The marksman bowed, wincing as the sore muscles in his back protested the movement. “I am of the King’s Musketeers, Madame. I consider it my sworn duty to protect all the lovely women of Paris from harm.”

Porthos snorted a laugh, which he blatantly ignored, instead keeping his attention focused on the woman before him. Her eyes widened at the boast, but she held out a hand while tucking a stray titian curl back into her elaborate coif. “I am Madame de Guiche. And you are?”

“Aramis.” He took her hand and kissed it, smiling as he bowed. He chuckled at the not so subtle sound of a throat clearing behind him. “And this is my friend, Porthos.”

Porthos bowed in turn, and Madame de Guiche nodded her head toward him before returning her gaze to Aramis. “Did I hear you correctly? You are Musketeers?”

“At your service, Madame.” Aramis’ hand rose to touch the brim of his hat, realizing it no longer sat upon his head. A quick look around saw it still in the street, crushed from the force of the wagon’s wheels rolling over it.

He moaned as he bent to retrieve it, frowning at the broken feather that lay limp against the battered felt.

“Are you hurt, Monsieur?” Madame de Guiche placed a hand upon his arm and he shook his head, holding up the crushed hat, rolling his eyes at Porthos’ low chuckle. 

“Forgive him, Madame,” the big man clapped his friend on the back. “He has an unusual attachment to his chapeaux.”

“Oh my,” the woman reached out and took the hat from Aramis’ hand. “I’m afraid your feathered friend received the worst of the injuries.” Her eyes were dancing with mirth when she turned back to him, the battered hat clutched in her hands. “You will at least allow me the honor of having it repaired?”

Aramis smiled. “There is no need, Madame. It is merely a hat.” His tone belayed his words, the loss of the item obviously paining him more than any of the bruises caused by the fall.

“Nonsense, it is the least I can do to repay your gallantry.” She reached into the bag that was somehow still hanging from her wrist and produced a small square of stiff parchment with the name of the Hôtel de Sully embossed upon it. “This is where I am staying. Please stop by this evening at your convenience. In the meantime, I will see what can be done about your chapeaux.”

Aramis could see by the set of her jaw there would be no dissuading her, so he bowed in accord. “It would be my pleasure, Madame.”

“Good,” she brushed the hat as if it would magically remove the large dent disfiguring it. “I shall expect you this evening, Monsieur Aramis.” With a nod to Porthos she strode away toward the market leaving the two Musketeers staring after her.

Porthos chuckled low in his throat. “A bit elaborate, even for you,” he remarked as soon as the Madame was out of earshot.

Aramis shrugged. “I do not discriminate, Porthos. You know that.”

“What the hell happened out here anyway?”

Aramis looked around, relieved to see the crowd had dispersed and the wagon had been stopped just beyond the garrison’s archway without further incident. He waved a hand toward the still nervous horses as he began to make his way down the street. 

“Something must’ve spooked the horses. We should find out who owns that wagon –“

“Duggan and Morley can find out who owns the wagon,” Porthos steered his friend toward the archway, keeping a hand on his arm as he guided him through the gates. “You are going to sit down and let someone take a look at you; make sure you didn’t damage anything when you decided to play hero back there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Porthos, I’m fine.” Aramis tried to shrug the bigger man’s hold off, but a twinge in his back made him grunt in pain instead.

“Uh huh.” Porthos was less than convinced. “You’ve done your part, now let someone else do the rest, huh?”

The sincere concern in his friend’s voice caused Aramis to stifle any further protest and he allowed himself to be steered into the garrison courtyard, relinquishing himself to his friend’s care.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Aramis stopped in front of the brightly lit mansion, pulling the folded piece of parchment from his belt. Porthos had smirked knowingly when he’d left the Wren, expressing his good wishes for the wellbeing of Aramis’ hat, while Athos had quirked an eyebrow, silently asking if it was prudent for him to be doing anything other than taking care of the myriad of scrapes and bruises he had collected from his morning’s activities.

He’d felt fine earlier, the rush of adrenaline still pumping through his body, masking the discomfort of his daring rescue, but soon after their return to the garrison, the aches had begun to seep in, causing him to limp at every step. 

Athos was right, he really should be in bed – his own to be precise.

But Madame de Guiche intrigued him. She was a bit older but quite attractive, obviously a woman of wealth and stature considering she was staying here as a guest of the financier Monsieur Gallet. Normally, he would not hesitate to want to spend time with such a woman. There was no denying her beauty, and although he had in the past, romanced women far older, he found himself hesitant to consider her in such a manner. Porthos had assumed she would be another conquest, but Aramis was having trouble sorting through his feelings – something that rarely happened to the marksman.

Ever since that morning, he’d not been able to get her face out of his mind. It was as if he knew her, though he was sure they had never met before today. It was her eyes that intrigued him. They had seemed somehow familiar, sparking something in him that he could not explain. It had kept him on edge throughout the day; uneasy and unsure of what to expect when he called upon her, but his curiosity was piqued and before his better judgment could take hold, he found himself leaving the Wren and making his way the few blocks to the Hôtel de Sully. 

He wasn’t up to his normal standards of charm – an inescapable circumstance considering his body’s escalating protests – but it was not in him to disregard a lady’s invitation. After contemplating his options over a cup of wine, he’d decided to make an appearance, retrieve his hat – in whatever condition it was in – and then excuse himself under the auspices of duty. He promised himself there was nothing that would cause him to stay, confident he would be able to prevent himself from making the mistake of allowing his libido to take control of his heart and mind. 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis had been announced and directed to a sitting room on the main floor. As he waited, he wished for his hat, if just to have something in his hands. He couldn’t remember the last time he was nervous to meet a woman and couldn’t fathom why he would be now. Madame de Guiche was lovely; hardly as breathtaking as some of the women he had known and loved, but something about her set him on edge and he had yet to figure out why. Before he could contemplate it further, the door to the room opened and the lady in question stepped through. She smiled and approached, one hand outstretched.

“It is very good of you to come, Monsieur Aramis.”

The Musketeer bowed formally, placing a chaste kiss on her hand.

“Good evening, Madame. I hope it is not too late to be calling?”

Madame de Guiche returned his smile, her hazel eyes assessing him with a touch of admiration. “Of course not.” She placed the package she carried on a nearby chair and crossed to the small bar along the side of the room. “I believe I will have a brandy. I would be honored if you would join me.”

Though it was hardly proper for a gentleman to be alone with a lady he barely knew, it was she who had initiated this meeting and he could see no reason to deny her cordial invitation. 

“May I inquire as to your health?” Aramis asked once he had taken a seat on an elegantly upholstered settee across from a set of elegant chairs. He accepted a goblet filled with an aromatic brandy, nodding his thanks. “I’m sure this morning’s events were quite traumatic.” 

The Madame graced him with a smile as she settled herself in a chair across from him. “I assure you I am well, Monsieur. Your gallantry was admirable and exactly what I would expect from a King’s Musketeer.”

Aramis smiled as she picked up the package, unwrapping the delicate paper covering to reveal his hat, once more pristine, a colorful blue and green feather adorning the side. “As promised.”

He took the hat with a smile, running his hand across the soft felt, his eyes admiring the feather, much more elaborate than its predecessor.

“It is beautiful,” he admitted. “The bruises seem almost worth it.”

“I’m afraid I must make a small confession,” the Madame continued. “I was not in that street by accident. I was on my way to the garrison to inquire about you.”

Aramis frowned. “Me? Why? Have we been introduced before? Perhaps at one of the King’s fête’s?”

“No, I’m afraid we’ve never actually met, though I have heard quite a bit about you from my sister’s letters.”

Aramis placed the hat on the cushion beside him and took a sip of the brandy, savoring its slightly nutty taste. “Your sister?”

“Yes. My younger sister, Madelene. I believe you knew her as Adele?”

Aramis nearly choked on the brandy, coughing as the fiery liquid caught in his throat.

Adele? His Adele?

He stared wide-eyed at the woman before him, his mind suddenly registering the similarities between her features and those of his dead lover. While the Madame was older and a bit heavier than her sister, the eyes that looked at him now could’ve belonged to Adele herself. It had been well over a year since he’d last seen Adele Bessette, believing she’d chosen Cardinal Richelieu over him and retired to his country estate without even the consideration of a goodbye. Over time, he’d managed to put her out of his head and heart, only recently learning of her true fate; murdered at the hand of Richelieu for choosing her love for Aramis over the Cardinal’s wealth and position. 

Died for Love. That had been the epitaph the Cardinal had etched upon her crypt, a cruel joke that had been delivered from beyond the grave, leaving Aramis powerless to avenge her.

That she had been dead without his knowledge all that time was a guilt that still burned as hot as the hatred he felt for the man who had taken her young life for his own petty spite. If he had been able to bring Richelieu back to life, he would’ve relished in making him suffer greatly for that one unforgivable act.

“I can see you do remember her,” Madame de Guiche resumed, her face carefully devoid of emotion. “She told me of you in her letters. She seemed quite fond.”

Aramis swallowed, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “Adele was a wonderful girl. I am truly sorry I was not able to prevent her ultimate fate.”

The Madame’s lips thinned. “I was told she was attacked by bandits on a ride into the country. If you were not with her, Monsieur, I can not see how you could have protected her.”

Aramis closed his eyes, taking a healthy swallow from the cup in his hand. Damn the Cardinal for his lies! He prayed the man was burning in Hell for his sins. Although it may have been easier to allow the woman to believe her sister’s death was an accident of chance, he could not bear the weight of the lie when his guilt pressed so heavily upon him.

“I’m afraid you have been misinformed.” He placed the empty cup onto the table beside the settée and leaned back, the brandy leaving him suddenly over-warm and lightheaded. “I only recently learned the truth about what happened to Adele. I was under the impression she had left Paris for Cardinal Richelieu’s country estate. I had spoken to her only the evening before and she had made no mention of the move, but,” he shrugged, “under the circumstances, I would understand her reticence to tell me of the decision.”

Madame de Guiche nodded, waving for him to continue.

“When I returned to see her days later, I was told that Adele was gone. I believed her happy and alive for over a year. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago I learned what truly happened.”

The lady settled her own untouched glass against the palm of her hand, holding it on her lap. “Please, Monsieur, I need to know what happened to my sister.” Her face had taken on such a profound expression of sadness and Aramis found himself powerless to resist her soft entreaty. 

The Musketeer swallowed, trying to settle the memories running rampant through his mind. “The Cardinal must’ve found out that Adele and I… that we were…,” he paused, not sure how to phrase their relationship without sullying the young woman’s reputation in the eyes of her sister.

“Please, monsieur, I was well aware of Madelene’s… dalliances. She wrote to me of your affair as well as the Cardinal. Do not fear you will shock me.”

Aramis nodded and took a deep breath. “Richelieu obviously found out about us and he took it as a betrayal. He had her murdered.” He looked down, unable to hide the guilt he knew shone in his eyes. “I only learned of it when a man who had been in league with the Cardinal showed me her crypt after the Cardinal’s passing earlier this year.” He felt the burn in his chest, just as he did the night in the crypt, disbelieving eyes staring at the stone epitaph. “If I would have only suspected she was in danger, I would have done all within my power to protect her. I swear this to you.” He squeezed his eyes closed, the room becoming cloistering as the emotion of his confession pressed down upon him. “I’m sorry, I failed her, and I will forever hold myself accountable for her suffering.”

Silence reigned for a moment, the crackling fire in the hearth the only sound.

“So it was the Cardinal himself who killed her?”

Aramis shook his head, still unable to meet the woman’s too familiar eyes. “Richelieu would never have dirtied his own hands. But I’m sure he was there to witness the act, hiding like the coward he was.” The vehemence in his voice surprised Madame de Guiche and she held a hand to her breast as his face hardened in hatred. “He waited until after his death to have one of his minions inform me. By then I couldn’t do anything for her, and for that I will never forgive myself.”

Madame de Guiche set her brandy down on the table beside the chair, her hand shaking, the dark liquid nearly spilling from the crystal goblet.

“Is what you have told me the truth?”

Aramis finally raised his eyes to hers, his expression a mixture of sorrow and regret. “I swear to you on my honor as a Musketeer. I do not ask for your forgiveness, Madame. I only hope you know I cared very much for Adele.”

“She loved you.” The words were more of an accusation than a consolation.

Aramis nodded sadly. “I don’t know if it was love, but it was, at least, deep affection. Neither of us were looking beyond the present, but I would like to think, if we had chosen it, a future could have been forged.”

The woman searched his face, searching for any sign of deceit. He held her gaze, hoping she could see the sincerity of his affections for Adele. Finally she sighed, her countenance crumbling as tears shined in her eyes. “I believe you, Monsieur.” Madame de Guiche rose and made her way to the door, opening it as Aramis stood on shaking legs. “I appreciate your candor, and I thank you for the consideration you showed to my sister.”

Seeing her words and actions as a dismissal, Aramis grabbed his newly repaired hat from the cushion beside him and moved to the door. He stepped through the threshold, his head down, his mind clouded with despair.

“Monsieur Aramis?”

He turned to find Madame de Guiche standing in the doorway, her hands folded tightly before her, her face a mask of sorrow. “I’m afraid I was… misinformed. Please know I am sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he responded, confused.

She nodded contritely. “Be that as it may, I will be leaving tomorrow, and I will never step foot in Paris again. I am glad you were able to bring some joy into Madelene’s life and know I am sorry for whatever pain my actions may cause you.”

She abruptly closed the door, leaving the Musketeer standing in the hall, exhausted, confused and utterly alone.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis shivered as he stepped out into the cool night air. He felt as if he’d just fought a duel, his body tight with tension, his mind and emotions in turmoil. He had not allowed himself to think about Adele for so long. Athos and Porthos consistently reminded him there had been nothing he could have done to prevent her death – outside of never having laid eyes on her to begin with – and he’d eventually allowed himself to believe it, cursing Richelieu for his deception and praying to God for her immortal soul. With Richelieu dead and buried, there was truly no recourse for his anger, though his guilt was another subject entirely. 

He had begged Adele to leave Richelieu, but she had merely laughed at his suggestion. Accustomed to the benefits being the Cardinal’s mistress afforded her, the affections of a lowly Musketeer had not been enough to turn her from the splendors the Cardinal could provide. It had broken his heart to hear Richelieu’s minion announce that she had declared her love for Aramis with her dying breath, and that alone had sealed the guilt within his soul. But he’d finally had to admit his brothers were right. Outside of physically removing her from Paris himself, there was little he could’ve done to avert the tragedy. The Cardinal had covered his treachery too well; no clue was left to find, the result not left to chance.

He wiped a shaking hand down his face, grimacing at the oily sweat he felt on his skin. With his heart racing, he set off toward the garrison, too fractured by the encounter with Madame de Guiche to even consider rejoining his friends. 

The pain in his stomach came upon him without warning and he groaned, rubbing a hand across his belly, wondering why it was suddenly so prevalent against the other aches his body had sustained in the dive across the unforgiving cobbles of the street. The brandy sat unsettled in his stomach and his heart began to beat rapidly against his ribs as he made his way along the dark street. He felt lightheaded, his breath catching in his throat as if the air had become too thick to swallow.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. The specter of Adele’s face hung before him, her smile lighting up her eyes. He could almost smell her perfume, feel the touch of her lips on his neck, his cheek. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to take deep breaths, the dark streets of Paris slowly pushing the memories away. He knew they were only images conjured by his mind, his guilt and grief finally coming to fruition. He felt sorry for Madame de Guiche, having to learn about her beloved sister’s fate in such an abrupt manner. It was clear the woman had sought him out, believing him responsible for Adele’s untimely death. From the look of remorse on her face, she no longer harbored ill will toward him, but her parting words stuck in his mind.

“… I am sorry for whatever pain my actions may cause you…”

He had no idea what she had meant by those words. Perhaps her apology was offered because of the pain memories of Adele had brought forth, or simply because she found him sincere enough in his affection for her sister, forgiving him the transgression of being unable to save her from her fate. But for now, he was content knowing she was aware of the truth, no matter how tragic the reality, and that he was no longer alone in his condemnation of the man who had destroyed a life so beautiful and full of promise.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Porthos dropped onto the bench beneath their usual table as he moaned, ignoring the chuckle that came from d’Artagnan’s cheerful face.

“Rough night?” the Gascon asked innocently.

“Porthos decided to attempt matching me cup for cup,” Athos declared, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “A feat he was ill equipped to handle.”

“I’ll never understand how you can drink so much and feel it so little.” Porthos pulled his other leg across the bench and let his head tip down into his hands.

“Years of practice, my friend,” Athos responded, his tone tight. “I would not recommend you make a habit of it.”

Porthos laughed and shook his head wearily. “Don’t worry. I think I learned my lesson.”

“Where’s Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked, his eyes skirting the courtyard. “Don’t tell me he was as foolish as you?”

“Aramis is only foolish when it comes to affairs of the heart,” Athos admitted. “As for other vices, he is surprisingly restrained.”

“Which is why he spent the night with his new lady acquaintance instead of us,” Porthos responded knowingly. “Probably the smarter move.”

D’Artagnan laughed. “From the way you look…” he sniffed the air, making a face at the odor of stale wine wafting from the older man. ‘… and smell, I would definitely agree his was the more pleasant choice.”

Porthos snorted in agreement. “Can’t argue with ya, whelp.” He raised his head and looked around. “He’s not here yet?” He gave the others a sly smile. “Must’ve been in much better company than us last night, eh?”

“Perhaps he is in his room,” Athos suggested. “I suppose it would be prudent of us to check.”

“If he made it back to the garrison at all.” D’Artagnan grinned.

Serge appeared next to the table, dropping a large pot filled with a thick gray paste onto the weathered top. “You look as if you could use this,” the old man chuckled at the big Musketeer. He slopped a ladle full into a wooden bowl and pushed it toward Porthos. “If ya don’t look at it, it’ll help.”

Porthos’ only response was a grunt of approval before digging into the gruel.

D’Artagnan eagerly accepted a bowl of the porridge, liberally pouring some honey atop it before digging in like his friend.

“I suppose that means it falls to me to find our truant fourth.” Athos pushed himself up from the table and made his way toward the stairs. “Perhaps you could leave some for the rest of the men?” He called back as Porthos scooped another ladle full into his bowl.

“Then they’d best get down here soon,” the big Musketeer grinned. He looked at d’Artagnan’s bowl and hummed, intrigued, before grabbing the honey pot and upending it over his own.

Serge turned and caught Athos’ eye. He mouthed the words I’ll make more before shuffling back to the kitchen, his laughter rumbling on the early morning breeze. 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Athos knocked on the door to Aramis’ quarters, leaning close, listening for signs of movement from within. Turning the handle, he pushed in the door, squinting as he stepped inside the room. The shutters were tightly closed, the light from the open doorway the only source of illumination, the air heavy, stifling. Aramis’ weapons belt lay on the floor near one of the wooden chairs as if it had been indifferently tossed toward the table and missed, not deemed important enough to pick up and place properly.

Athos frowned. It was unlike Aramis to be so careless with his weapons. The marksman took great pride in his ornate pistols. His dagger and main gauche were always spotless and gleaming. Porthos had often teased him that he kept them in such pristine condition so that he’d always have a mirror to verify his vanity. Aramis usually just smiled and quipped that he owed it to his public to maintain the perfection they had come to expect.

Right now, though, the room was far from perfection. A few paces from the weapons belt, Aramis’ doublet hung crookedly from the chair back, the long strips of leather folded against the dusty floor. There was an overturned cup on the table along with an untouched bottle of wine and a pair of familiar boots lay one after another in a path to the bed. 

A shifting lump buried under the rough blanket on the small cot caught his attention, and he cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes, intending to chastise his friend for his truancy. He crossed the room in determined strides and yanked back the blanket, his reprimand dying on his tongue as he took in the marksman’s countenance.

Aramis was sweating – not entirely unexpected considering the cloying atmosphere inside the room – and his face was flushed, his brow creased as if he were in pain. He lay on his side, his arms wrapped around his stomach, his knees brought up against his chest.

Athos reached down and laid a hand against the sleeping man’s cheek. The skin was warm to the touch, but not overly so despite the sheen of sweat covering his face. Still clothed in his shirt and breeches, Aramis reacted to the sudden disappearance of the blanket by curling further into himself, almost as if the loss of the thin material had allowed a chill to pervade his body. Athos crouched down beside the bed.

“Aramis?”

He pushed a damp curl from his friend’s forehead, his concern edging up a notch when the touch elicited no response.

“Aramis?” he called again, louder, latching onto the marksman’s shoulder and shaking it slightly. He didn’t want to alarm the man; even ill, Aramis tended to come up swinging when awakened abruptly.

But this time he merely cracked open his eyes, staring blearily at Athos’ face for a moment before recognition dawned.

“’thos?”

“Are you unwell?”

Aramis swallowed, taking a breath through his nose. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to assess his body’s signals before responding.

“Stomach ‘urts.”

Athos smiled fondly, pressing the back of his hand against the flushed cheek again. “And you are warm,” he observed. “Though that could be from the lack of fresh air in this room.” 

Aramis rolled onto his back, his face twisting up in discomfort as a moan escaped his throat.

“I can see you’re in no condition for duty.” Athos leaned to the side and retrieved the blanket he had discarded only moments ago. He shook it out and draped it back over Aramis’, the marksman clutching at it like a life-line and pulling it close to his chin.

“Cold.”

Athos snorted a disbelieving laugh. “You are definitely sick, my friend, as it is stifling in here.” He pushed himself up, looking down at his friend with pity. “I will inform Treville of your condition. Take the day and rest.”

Aramis nodded and turned back onto his side, again curling into a tight ball before succumbing to the pull of sleep once more.

Athos shook his head and strode over to the window. Unlatching the shutter, he opened them just enough to allow fresh air into the room while still blocking the sunlight. With one more look at his sleeping friend, he headed back out into the courtyard to inform the Captain they would be one man short for duty at the palace.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis didn’t appear for supper that evening, still asleep when Porthos checked on him after their return from the Louvre. Serge assured them he had managed to get some water and broth into him earlier and he no longer appeared flushed, but he slept on and none of the others had the heart to steal him from the much needed rest. Aramis rarely succumbed to illness, but when he did, it was uncommon for him to admit to feeling unwell so openly. They knew their friend must be quite uncomfortable to remain abed for an entire day without a physical wound to hamper his mobility. 

“Do you think he will be ready to accompany us in the morning?” d’Artagnan asked as they polished off the rest of the bread and stew Serge had served them upon their return from duty.

“Porthos said he was no longer feverish,” Athos responded. “And he was sleeping peacefully. I hope that means the illness has run its course and he will be able to resume his duties.”

Porthos grunted in agreement as he trailed a bit of crusty bread through the sauce left from the stew. “I didn’t wake ‘im, but he seemed to be all right. I’ll check back before I turn in. I’m sure he’ll be fit and fine and ready to take a nice ride in the country tomorrow.”

They were expected on their regular quarterly assignment to accompany the King’s tax collector as he set out to the northern provinces. Ever since they had thwarted an attack a couple of years before, the collector, a mousy yet pleasant man by the name of Dupries, had requested they accompany him on all his sojourns north. It wasn’t exactly preferred duty, but the leisurely ride in the country was enjoyable, and Dupries always treated them at their last stop in the village of Pontoise where the inn made a delectable roast duck they all had grown quite fond of. As long as Dupries continued to sing their praises before the King – much to the Cardinal’s, and now Rochefort’s, annoyance – they had no problem accompanying him the few times a year he requested their presence.

Morning dawned and the three men found themselves once more at the table awaiting their fourth. They had polished off a breakfast of eggs, ham and warm brown bread; Serge always serving them something a bit more substantial than porridge when he knew they’d be gone on a mission. As Athos poured another serving of spiced ale into his tankard, his attention shifted to the opening of a door up on the walkway of the barracks.

“It looks as if Aramis will grace us with his presence today,” he remarked, taking a sip of the ale, angling his head towards the stairs. Both d’Artagnan and Porthos turned in unison to see the man in question slowly make his way across the balcony. He moved stiffly and he kept a firm grip on the railing as he descended, but soon seated himself beside Athos, smiling tiredly.

“You still look terrible,” Porthos eyed his friend with disapproval as he scraped his spoon against his platter to capture the last of the eggs. 

“Your adulation is most appreciated,” Aramis responded. Though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, his smile was warm and genuine.

“He’s right,” d’Artagnan weighed in. “You still look like you could use about a week’s worth of sleep. Perhaps you should take another day? Rest up?”

Aramis leaned his elbows on top of the table and let his head sink between his hands, nimble fingers pressing the wild curls back from his face. “I am grateful for your concern, d’Artagnan, but I assure you I am feeling much better. I am quite fit for duty.” He looked askance at Athos, grimacing as the swordsman offered the tankard of ale in his grip. He waved it away, ignoring the looks of concern the motion garnered from the others. “If I remember correctly, we are to escort Monsieur Dupries today?”

Athos’ eyes narrowed as he studied his friend. The marksman was still pale, dark smudges under his eyes conveying his fatigue. He detected a slight tremor in the man’s hands, but he did look much better than he had the day before, and if he believed himself fit to ride, Athos would take him at his word.

“We are to meet him at the Louvre and travel to the northern territories. We will hopefully be back in two days’ time.”

Aramis nodded his affirmation. “Then the sooner we get moving, the sooner we will return.”

“D’Artagnan and I will get the horses,” Porthos informed them as he rose. He pushed a plate of ham towards Aramis. “You, eat. I’m not goin’ to be picking you up off the ground if you swoon and fall off your horse.”

Aramis had the grace to chuckle as he picked up a chuck of meat and took a tentative bite. “Musketeers never swoon, my dear Porthos.”

“Let’s keep it that way, eh?” The big man grabbed the full tankard from Athos’ hand and placed it next to the platter pointedly before striding off, a chuckling d’Artagnan in tow.

“He’s pushy,” Aramis quipped.

“He’s concerned.” 

“He’s annoying.” Aramis took another bite of the meat, chewing slowly. 

“Perhaps you would care to tell him that when he returns?” Athos inquired innocently.

Aramis huffed a laugh through his nose. “Contrary to popular belief, I do have some semblance of self-preservation.”

“Good to know.” 

Athos poured another mug of ale and they sat in companionable silence as Aramis struggled to swallow a few more bites of the cold ham in deference to Porthos’ demand. The marksman’s hand had wandered to his stomach and Athos could tell even the small amount of food he had consumed was not sitting well. His pallor had increased as he valiantly choked down the ale and Athos was about to call an end to his ruse when one of the cadets on guard duty outside the gates hustled across the courtyard toward them.

“Excuse me for interrupting your meal,” the young man apologized. He held out a scrap of parchment to Aramis. “This was delivered for you by the man at the gates.” He looked over his shoulder and the two Musketeers followed his gaze to a man leaning against the stone archway. Attired in a fine green doublet, his hair was cropped close, his beard neatly trimmed, but the slumped shoulders and slouched posture as he leaned against the shadowed brick betrayed his lower breeding, and Athos couldn’t help but wonder what business he could have with a Musketeer so early in the morning.

Curious, Aramis took the note and opened it. Athos shifted his attention to his friend as a quiet gasp escaped his lips, his countenance paling further as his eyes moved back and forth across the page.

“Aramis?”

The marksman swallowed hard and handed over the note without a word.

Athos read the message aloud. “You have been poisoned. You will be given instructions by the man bearing this message. If you follow these instructions, you will receive an antidote. If you refuse, you will die.” 

As the meaning of the threat became clear, Athos caught Aramis’ gaze, flinching at the uncommon fear reflected in the dark eyes. He stood immediately, his eyes narrowing at the man loitering by the gate. “Seize that man,” he ordered. “Bring him to Treville’s office at once!”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Captain Treville scanned the note, his eyes narrowing at the man standing before him. Porthos and d’Artagnan flanked the prisoner, anger simmering in their eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” Treville demanded. “Who are you to threaten one of my men in such way?”

“Who I am is not important, but you may call me Andre if you wish,” the man responded, his voice calm, collected. He glanced at Porthos standing rigidly beside him. “I must also inform you, if I am not allowed to walk out of this garrison unharmed, the deal is off and your man dies a very painful and gruesome death.”

Treville’s eyes shot to Aramis standing near the doorway, Athos’ hand on his shoulder. The marksman was moving of his own accord, but he did look ill, and the anger coming off the others in nearly physical waves lent credence to the man’s claims.

Treville pointed to a chair directly in front of his desk in obvious invitation. When Andre made no move to acquiesce, Porthos forcefully helped him to take a seat.

“How do we know you’re telling us the truth?”

Andre had the audacity to laugh. He shifted in the chair, looking back over his shoulder at Aramis before d’Artagnan stepped into his line of sight, effectively blocking his view of the marksman. The man looked the young Musketeer up and down before returning his insolent gaze to Treville.

“I believe the effects of the poison are evident,” he proclaimed. “But by all means, Captain, let us inquire as to how Monsieur Aramis is feeling today.”

Treville’s eyes flicked to the marksman who lowered his head as if trying to avoid corroborating the declaration. The Captain sighed. 

“What do you want?”

“Money, of course.”

“We are mere soldiers,” Treville explained. “We have little money, but I will give you what I can spare.”

The man shook his head, seemingly unconcerned. “We are not after a pittance, Captain.”

“Then I’m afraid we cannot accommodate your demands.” He hated to say it, especially with Aramis standing only a few paces away, but it was the truth. The garrison did not have the coin to give into such a threat no matter whose life hung in the balance.

“The King can.”

Treville snorted a laugh at the thought. “The King would no more pay ransom for one of us than one of his horses. I’m afraid you have greatly overestimated the regiment’s importance to his majesty.”

The man shrugged, nonplussed. “Yet your men are tasked with protecting the King’s gold. Perhaps that gold being lost on its way to Paris is a convenient solution to your dilemma?”

“You speak of the taxes Monsieur Dupries collects,” Athos spoke up. “That is what you’re after.”

“Very astute, Musketeer.” The blackmailer didn’t attempt to meet Athos’ gaze, his smug smile still aimed at Treville. The captain clenched his fists, fighting the urge to reach across the desk and wipe the grin off the man’s face. Better yet, he could allow Porthos to do the honors.

“We cannot do as you demand,” he responded, the calm in his voice surprising even him. “You have made a grievous error in coming here.”

“Then your man will die,” he said simply. “And my friends will take the taxes anyway. This way, no one need get hurt, Captain.” He stood, flinching as Porthos shifted beside him, growling low in his throat. “My friends are waiting for me, Captain. If I do not walk out of here in the next few minutes, I’m afraid there is no chance for your Musketeer.” He watched Treville expectantly.

“And if we agree to your terms, what would you have us do?”

The man’s smile widened. “Nothing, of course. My comrades will make the attack look good, allowing your men to appear to be protecting the money enough to satisfy the tax collector when he reports the loss to the King. When they are overwhelmed and the money taken, no one will be the wiser.” He spread his hands before him. “So you see, we get what we want, you get the antidote and the King will never realize what really happened. Everyone wins.”

“Captain,” Aramis spoke up, his voice laced with outrage. “You can’t possible be considering this.”

“Your life is at risk, Aramis.”

“My life is pledged to the King, to France. I will not allow you to dishonor the regiment in my name.”

Treville studied the man for a moment before tipping his chin toward Andre. “Take him to the Bastille,” the Captain ordered. “See what information you can get out of him.” He chanced a look at Aramis, relieved to see the marksman nodding his approval.

Porthos shoved the man roughly. Tripping over the chair, he fell into d’Artagnan who grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back with enough force to make him cry out in pain. Athos held the door open as they marched the man outside, pulling it closed as he followed them onto the landing.

Treville rounded the desk, moving to stand before his ailing Musketeer. “I’m sorry, Aramis.”

“You made the right decision, Captain. We cannot allow men like that to hold us hostage to our loyalties. Our duty comes first.”

“I’m glad you see it that way.” He took a deep breath and let it our between pursed lips. “I will inform the King of what has happened and request he allow Doctor Lemay to assist. With luck the others will be able to break this would be assassin before…” he couldn’t finish the statement, the implication obvious.

“Before it’s too late,” Aramis concluded. “Let us hope so, Captain. But if the worst should happen, know I am grateful to you for allowing me to keep my honor.”

Treville smiled and placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Your honor, Aramis, was never in question.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos stopped just outside the door and laid a hand on Athos’ arm. He watched as d’Artagnan herded their prisoner further down the stairs before speaking low and quiet.

“We’re not goin’ to just let Aramis die, right?” Though the big Musketeer voiced it as a statement rather than a question, Athos detected a hint of desperation in his tone.

“Of course not,” Athos responded. “You would be impossible to live with if I allowed that to happen.”

Porthos snorted a laugh that was more relief than humor. “So what’s the plan?” He let his eyes drift to where d’Artagnan was shoving the prisoner across the lower landing, his arm still painfully bent behind his back. “You don’t really think he’s goin’ to tell us anything, do ya?”

Athos shook his head. “No. Our new friend seems quite confident in his position. I don’t believe locking him inside the Bastille or interrogating him would improve Aramis’ chances.”

“Then what are we goin’ to do? Where are we takin’ him?”

“We’re sending him back to wherever he came from.”

“You’re thinking of letting him go?” Porthos asked, incredulous. “He’s holdin’ Aramis’ life in his hands and you want to let him out of our sight?”

Athos turned to face his friend fully, placing both hands on the big man’s strong arms. He could feel how coiled the muscles beneath his touch were, knowing how hard Porthos was fighting to not beat the truth out of the man. “He has the antidote. Aramis needs it. I see no other choice than to allow him to believe his plan will succeed.”

“Allow him to…” Porthos repeated. His face broke into a sly grin. “But it ain’t goin’ to succeed, is it?”

Athos dropped his hands, mirroring his friend’s grin. “Oh succeed it will, just on our terms.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“Where’s Porthos?” d’Artagnan glanced around, careful to keep an eye on the prisoner as they escorted him through the garrison gate and out onto the street.

“I sent him on an errand.” Athos responded curtly. He had a firm grasp on the Andre’s arm, his eyes ahead, his pace clipped. “I believe having him near our new acquaintance would be hazardous to his continued good health.”

D’Artagnan frowned. He agreed with the sentiment, but still found it difficult to believe Porthos would allow himself to be excluded from what they were about to do. “And he agreed? It must have been some errand for Porthos to miss out on interrogating this prisoner – especially when it’s Aramis’ life at stake.”

Athos merely grunted in return, leaving the Gascon perplexed. Maybe Athos had persuaded the big Musketeer to remain at the garrison with Aramis, or perhaps he’d sent him off to find Dr. Lemay? Porthos’ anger and frustration had been tangible, apparent for all to see. Perhaps keeping Porthos focused on helping Aramis was a good idea – though they could certainly use the intimidating Musketeer to coerce Andre into cooperating.

A few blocks from the garrison, Athos abruptly shoved the prisoner into a narrow alley. D’Artagnan glanced around to see if anyone had taken notice, relieved to find the people of Paris going about their daily business, paying little attention to them. With his hand poised above the pommel of his sword, he took a few sideways steps to the mouth of the alley, silently standing guard as Athos shoved the man into the brick behind him. 

Athos pressed an arm against the prisoner’s throat, stifling any objection he may have made. He leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous. “We agree to your terms.”

D’artagnan opened his mouth to protest, but the sideways glare Athos sent his way silenced him immediately.

“Your Captain made it very clear–” Andre managed to choke out, but Athos pressed harder, abruptly silencing him, not giving him the opportunity to continue.

“My Captain must answer directly to the King,” the swordsman explained. “My first concern is my men. I will not risk Aramis for gold the King will never miss.”

Their captive’s answering smile was smug, arrogant despite his tenuous position. D’Artagnan’s hand itched to slap it from his face.

“The tax collector’s final stop is in Pontoise, is it not?” Athos let up on the pressure and Andre continued. “My friends will appear on your journey from there to Paris. They will allow you to make a good show of it if you wish – I’m sure the tax collector will give the King a complete report of the proceedings -- but you will not seriously harm any of them. That is not negotiable.”

“And what of the antidote?”

“After they are away, you will be given instructions on where to find it.”

“No.” Athos shook his head and reapplied the pressure to Andre’s neck. The man wheezed in a thin breath. “We will not allow them to escape with the money until we have Aramis’ salvation safe in hand. That is not negotiable.”

The man pushed ineffectively against Athos’ arm, his mouth open, gasping. Finally he nodded agreement. Athos stepped back and the prisoner doubled over, one hand rubbing at his neck while the other balanced on his thigh. D’Artagnan was fairly sure that without the brick behind him, he would’ve collapsed to the ground in a heap. 

“I will instruct them to have the antidote with them,” he assured in a rough voice. “They will exchange it for the money – but there will be no tricks, or they will destroy it and your friend will die along with the rest of you.”

D’Artagnan watched as the man straightened, staring defiantly at Athos until the Musketeer nodded in capitulation. With a quick look to d’Artagnan, Andre slid his back against the wall a few steps to the left before taking off at a run down the dark alley.

D’Artagnan waited for Athos at the alley entrance, eyeing the swordsman as he stopped beside him. “Captain Treville is not going to like this.”

“Neither will Aramis,” Athos conceded. “But there is no other choice.”

 

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“What do you mean he escaped?” Treville rarely raised his voice but had been known to bellow when the situation called for it. Athos supposed this qualified as one of those times. The Captain’s eyes narrowed in anger, his lips pressed thin, expression stony as he stepped directly into Athos’ personal space.

“It means he is no longer in our custody,” Athos responded, belatedly wincing at the habitual flippancy. “I’m unsure what needs to be explained further, Captain.”

They stood at attention, unflinching as their superior glared. Aramis slouched off to the side, quiet and confused. He’d been silent since they’d returned to inform the Captain of their prisoner’s ‘escape’, neither excusing nor condemning their actions in the face of his own uncertainty. Knowing his life was at risk should have given him cause to chastise their carelessness, yet his unflinching trust in them was enough to stay his doubts long enough to hear them out. Unfortunately Treville showed no such restraint. The Captain’s frustration was clearly evident as he clenched his fists at his side, livid at their apparent failure.

“You had no right to take this upon yourselves,” he accused, his voice incredulous, hard. “You are fortunate I have not yet spoken to His Majesty to inform him of this plot against the crown. As it is you have most likely destroyed what little faith Louis may still have in us. The man may have talked; given up his conspirators or at the very least the name of the poison used. By allowing him to leave, you have effectively signed Aramis’ death warrant.” Treville took a step back, his anger spent, his shoulders slumping under the stress of the situation. “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?” 

Porthos and d’Artagnan stood shoulder to shoulder with their leader, each chancing a glance at the marksman as he stood, arms crossed, eyes trained on the floor before him, carefully avoiding their gazes. 

“We have a plan,” Athos explained calmly. “One that, if properly executed, will save Aramis as well as renew the King’s trust.”

Treville took another step back and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms on his chest. “I’m sure this will be interesting.” He glanced at Aramis who shrugged, obviously as clueless as to his friends’ scheme as he was. 

“We agreed to his terms,” Athos turned from the Captain and met Aramis’ eyes, holding up a hand as the marksman opened his mouth to comment. “We need that antidote.” He stated plainly. Athos stepped past Porthos, his eyes begging the marksman to understand. “You are already feeling the effects of the poison, are you not?” At Aramis’ nod of concurrence, he turned back to Treville. “They will not act until we have collected the taxes and are set to return to Paris. Porthos has spoken with Monsieur Dupreis. He has agreed to exchange the collected coin for metal scraps when we are at the last stop in Pontoise. I would like you to arrange to have a Musketeer escort return the taxes by an alternate route from there. They have agreed to turn over the antidote before we allow them to escape. Once we have it, we will be able to arrest them and bring them to justice for their crimes against France and Aramis.”

Treville gave the plan some thought before shaking his head. “You’d be taking quite a risk. Assuming they will give you what you want before assuring their escape.”

“It’s part of the deal,” Porthos interjected. “No antidote, no money.”

“And if they insist on checking the bags before they hand it over?”

“Why would they?” d’Artagnan asked. “They know we are desperate.” He smiled sadly at Aramis. “If the decoys can fool them for even a moment it will be enough.”

“They will have the antidote with them,” Athos picked up the narrative. “I will insist on a simultaneous exchange. That way we will have it before they know they learn of our ruse.”

“And if the antidote is a fake?”

“Then they will still end up in the Bastille and the King’s gold will be safe,” Aramis cut in. “It’s a good plan, Captain. One that has every chance of working to our advantage.”

Treville remained skeptical. “And Monsieur Dupries agreed to this?”

Athos looked to Porthos who nodded affirmatively. “He was more than willin’ to give it a go.”

“He has an… affection for us four,” Athos assured the Captain. 

Porthos grinned. “He seemed rather eager to play the part – I think he’s a bit bored sitting behind a desk countin’ coin.”

Treville looked to the marksman, knowing he was the one with the most at stake. “Aramis?”

Aramis regarded each of his friends in turn, seeing the hope and concern etched on their faces. Finally he turned back to the Captain and dipped his head. “I believe it is our best chance. My life, as always, is safest in my brothers’ hands.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos pinched the skin between his eyes, forcing himself to hang onto what little calm he still possessed. Porthos and d’Artagnan had gone to arrange for provisions and saddle the horses, leaving him alone to deal with their obstinate fourth.

“You are not fit to accompany us, Aramis.” As much as he loathed saying the words, he had little choice. He waved a hand at the pale man standing before him. “Look at yourself. You can hardly stand let alone fight.” 

The marksman’s condition had deteriorated since they had explained their plan to the Captain, the poison doing its work, movement, no doubt, having accelerated its effects. Aramis’ skin was ashen, his eyes dull and filled with pain. Despite the obvious decline in his health, his expression was set in a determined scowl, resolute in his insistence he be allowed to ride alongside them.

“I cannot argue that I am unwell,” he admitted, “but I am not dead yet. And I will not be treated as if I am. You can’t possibly believe I’d agree to being left behind like some invalid while the three of you go off and risk your lives on my account. I can still sit a horse, Athos. I can still fight for my own life as well as yours.”

Athos sighed and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He felt the fine tremors running through Aramis’ frame as well as the unnatural heat as his body attempted to battle the effects of the poison. He had no doubt Aramis would fight despite his current discomfort, but with the poison already working against him, Athos feared it would be a death sentence for him to try.

“I don’t doubt your capabilities, my friend, I merely dread the cost. I will not have your penchant for self-destruction making things worse.”

Aramis pushed the hand away and took a step closer, his eyes flashing in anger. “I am well aware of my limits. I have not reached them yet.” He shrugged, the movement stiff, stunted. “Besides, it would be beneficial for me to be in close proximity to the antidote when we finally get our hands on it, would it not? And if you think waiting here for you to return would be more restful I dare say you don’t know me at all.”

On the contrary, Athos knew his friend better than he knew himself. Aramis’ need for action far outweighed his need for caution, even when it put his life at risk. It was obvious Aramis was irritated and Athos could easily understand his desperate need to do something – anything – other than sit and wait. He was not well, but neither was he so far gone that he would be of no use. It reassured Athos to see the familiar fire of determination still burning in those dark eyes. Aramis did not know how to give up, and it was that fire that would give him the best chance to survive.

“All right,” he finally agreed. “But if, at any time, you feel ill or need to stop, I expect you to speak up. I don’t want you putting yourself further at risk simply to stop us from worrying.”

“Like we’re not goin’ to be worryin’ anyway.” Porthos approached, leading two horses, d’Artagnan trailing with the two others as if the conclusion of the argument had never been in doubt.

“I will be the epitome of a cooperative patient,” Aramis promised. Porthos rolled his eyes and d’Artagnan snorted his own opinion as he handed Roger’s reins to Athos.

“Then let us depart,” Athos instructed. “Monsieur Dupreis awaits us at the Louvre.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis fidgeted in the saddle, unable to find a position that alleviated the pain in his stomach and back. He had been able to ignore it the first day of their journey, bantering with the others as if nothing was amiss. They took more breaks than usual, and although they never admitted it was for his benefit, Aramis didn’t argue, quietly thankful for his brothers’ continued concern. As promised, he made sure to tell them when he was feeling lightheaded or needed water or food, aware it extended their journey, but knowing the repercussions could be tragic if the increasing symptoms went unheeded.

Monsieur Dupries must have been coached by the others as he never once asked the marksman any questions concerning his health, but Aramis caught him stealing anxious glances on more than a few occasions. Though they had little contact with the man outside of these sojourns into the outlying territories, Aramis found his concern more flattering than cloying and bore the attention stoically.

They were nearing Pontoise and Aramis could barely contain the relief he felt at the sight of the village’s thatched roofs and faint firelight. The sun had almost slipped behind the hills to their west, and the scant light was making the journey more difficult than expected. They had been forced to ride far later into the evening than anticipated thanks to the frequent stops, but none of the others had uttered a word of complaint, each of them taking turns riding at his side, quietly lending moral support, ready to come to his aid should he need it.

He had never felt more proud to be a Musketeer.

“Only a few more minutes,” Porthos encouraged. “Then we can find us a warm fire and a good meal.”

“I’d much rather find a soft bed,” Aramis admitted. He had wanted the comment to come across as lighthearted, but the truth of the statement weighed heavy in his voice.

“Soon,” his friend promised. “You’ve done good, ‘Mis. Real good. This time tomorrow we’ll be back in Paris laughing about the whole bloody thing.”

Aramis desperately wanted to believe him. “I will hold you to your word, my friend.” The marksman shivered in the evening breeze, clenching his jaw against the pain the movement elicited, swallowing down a groan he knew would draw more attention than he would be able to handle.

They rode in silence, Aramis closing his eyes, allowing the horse his head, knowing he would follow the others without his guiding hand.

“I’ve been wonderin’” Porthos spoke again after a few moments. “How did they manage to poison you? You were with us most of the time except when you begged off to meet someone. How exactly did they get to you without us knowin’ it?”

Aramis sighed. He had hoped he would not have to bring up Adele’s sister’s involvement, but his friends had the right to know and he hoped they would understand why he could hold no animosity toward the grieving woman.

“Do you remember the woman who was almost run down by the wagon the other day?”

Porthos nodded. “The one you tackled in the street. Madame… de something.”

“De Guiche,” Aramis provided. “As it turned out, she was searching for me. I can’t help but assume the entire episode with the wagon was an elaborate ploy to get my attention.”

Porthos’ huff was dripping with rancor. “I can think of a few ways that don’t involve having a wild horse barreling down on you.”

“Be that as it may, if you recall, she promised to have my hat cleaned and repaired. She invited me back to her hotel to present it to me later that evening.”

Porthos smiled knowingly. “I remember now. So that’s where you scampered off to.”

“It wasn’t like that, Porthos,” Aramis scolded. “She was…” he sighed, not knowing how to explain what had happened nor the energy to try. “When I arrived, she offered me a brandy. I accepted as it would’ve been rude to refuse a lady.”

“You think the poison was in the brandy,” Porthos surmised. “But why? You saved her life. Why would she want to harm you?”

“Because she believed I was responsible for her sister’s death,” Aramis quietly admitted. He shifted in the saddle again, a grimace of pain escaping his control. Whether it was due to the physical or emotional pain he could not be sure. “She wasn’t entirely wrong.”

Porthos reached over and pulled on Aramis’ reins, effectively stopping them both in the middle of the road. “What am I not understandin’ here? You’ve never harmed a woman. You wouldn’t do that.”

Aramis took a shaking breath, dropping his head, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. A thudding ache was building in his head, his reserves running dry. “Her sister was Adele.”

“Christ.”

“Exactly.”

Porthos shifted his horse closer, laying his hand on Aramis’ trembling arm. “It was the Cardinal who killed her, Aramis. Not you.”

Aramis nodded slowly, pressing his lids tightly shut and breathing slowly, shallowly through his nose. “It was the Cardinal, yes, but because of me.”

“Don’t do this, ‘Mis. Don’t go down that road.” Porthos swore under his breath when Aramis didn’t respond. “Damnit! This still doesn’t give her any reason to… I’m going to be paying that woman a visit when we get back –“

“No!” Aramis grabbed hold of the hand on his arm, squeezing it with as much strength as he could. “Please Porthos, she was misled. Whether by Richelieu himself or someone who knew his secrets,” he shrugged. “I have no idea who convinced her of my guilt, but she truly believed me responsible. I cannot condemn her for wanting to see the man responsible for such a crime pay. I would seek vengeance myself if the Cardinal wasn’t already beyond my reach.”

Porthos eyed him curiously. “You want to just let her get away with this? She’s part of a conspiracy to rob the King! Aramis, she tried to kill you! She may still succeed!”

“I doubt she knew of the plot she was a part of. She was not interested in money. She wanted nothing more than retribution for Adele.” He shrugged, his eyes sad, distraught. “I can hardly find fault with her intent when I feel the same.”

Porthos shook his head, his smile grim. “Even dead, that man can make our lives miserable. You’re more forgiving than I, my friend.”

Aramis remembered the Madame’s apology just before she closed the door. …I am sorry for whatever pain my actions may cause you. 

He knew what she meant now, and he still could not find it in his heart to hold her accountable.

“She has lost enough. My forgiveness is freely given. I owe Adele that much. Perhaps it was enough for the Madame to grant me hers.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Morning dawned bright with sunshine, a cool breeze blowing across the waters of the nearby Oise River. It was only a few leagues south to where the Oise emptied into the Sienne where they’d follow the path of the familiar shoreline back to Paris.

Athos guessed the bandits would not show until they were well on their way South, perhaps just before the sun reached its peak in the cloudless blue sky. He made his way down to the common area of the Inn they had sheltered for the night. Though it was an expense, they had all agreed to allow their ailing friend a respite from the saddle, knowing a soft bed would do him more good than a night spent on the cold ground.

Athos couldn’t help but notice Aramis’ growing weakness. Though the marksman tried his best to ignore the increasing symptoms of the poison and give them little reason to cater to him, it was obvious he was losing the battle, his body beginning to succumb despite the iron will with which he resisted its effects. It had been no surprise when he had begged off immediately after supper the previous evening, stating openly that what little food he had managed to eat had laid sour in his stomach and that a good night’s rest was the best medicine he could hope for at the moment. Porthos had shared a room with him, but the Inn’s walls were thin and Athos had heard the big Musketeer’s deep soothing rumble more than once during the night, no doubt attempting to alleviate Aramis’ increasing discomfort. It was apparent from the hunched way Aramis had been riding that he was in constant pain, but he spoke not a word of it, steadily plodding along, doing his best to engage in the usual banter and discussion the four of them seamlessly shared. It was a testament to his strength that he’d made it this far, and it would be a testament to theirs to see him back to Paris alive.

Porthos, d’Artagnan and Monsieur Dupries were already seated at the long table breaking their fast on eggs, bacon and fruit. Aramis was nowhere in sight.

“We seem to be short one member of our party,” Athos observed casually as he sat beside d’Artagnan, accepting a plate of eggs from the innkeeper’s wife with a grateful nod. “Is Aramis still asleep?”

Porthos grunted as he polished off the ham on his plate. “He had a rough night, but he finally fell asleep just before dawn. I figured it would do him more good to let him alone until we were saddled up and ready to leave.”

Athos exchanged a look with d’Artagnan, the young Gascon’s brow creased with concern. “Will he make it?” He voiced the question aloud that was on all their minds.

“Of course he will,” Porthos stated without hesitation. “He’s Aramis. It’ll take more than a poisoned glass of brandy to put ‘im down.”

Porthos had shared Aramis’ account of how the poison had been introduced into his system after the marksman had taken his leave the previous evening. While angry at the circumstance, they had understood how hard it must have been for Aramis to encounter someone who grieved for Adele as much as he had. While they had all been as eager to see her brought to justice as much as Andre and his accomplices, they’d agreed to honor their friend’s request and keep the Madame’s name out of things if at all possible.

“Your faith in my resilience is heartening, my dear Porthos.”

Four sets of eyes turned in surprise as Aramis slipped onto the bench beside the big Musketeer. 

Porthos turned fully, leaning an elbow on the table, making a show of studying his pale friend. His expression of displeasure made his opinion of the marksman’s resilience quite obvious. “You’re supposed to be upstairs resting.”

“I thought we were leaving at dawn.” Aramis rebuked. “It seems well past.”

“Aramis,” Athos began, cautious. “It will not be an easy day, especially for you. We know –“

Aramis held up a hand, effectively staying Athos’ explanation. “While I appreciate your consideration, I assure you it is not necessary. I know I grow weaker with every passing moment and I am eager to get this over with and back to Paris. Please. The sooner we set out, the sooner we will get what we came for.”

“And so desperately need,” Athos finished for him, his blue eyes boring into his friend’s, his meaning clear.

Aramis smiled softly. “Yes, my friend, what I need. And the sooner we will be able to put this troublesome situation behind us.”

The other three Musketeers glanced at each other, quickly nodding their agreement. D’Artagnan pushed his empty plate aside and rose from the bench. “I’ll go make sure the horses are ready to go.”

“Calais and d’Everoux are to meet us in the stables to exchange the money,” Athos explained. “Once we have the fake purse for Monsieur Dupries, we will set out for Paris. I doubt it will be long before our expected guests make their move.”

“We’ll be ready for them,” Porthos assured him, placing a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “As soon as we get that antidote, they will regret ever threatening a Musketeer.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

What little strength Aramis had managed to regain quickly ebbed in the face of the poison’s continued progress. Though able to continue to sit a saddle without aid, it was obvious he would not be able to continue much longer, the pain and lack of rest and sustenance causing his condition to deteriorate at an alarming rate. Porthos remained close at his side, ready to lend a hand if the journey began to prove too much for the ailing man to handle. They all kept a wary eye on their companion, hoping the bandits would strike before too long, knowing their friend’s time was growing shorter with each passing moment. 

It wasn’t quite midday when the bandits appeared on the road, quickly surrounding the Musketeers as they pulled their horses to a halt. Playing his part well, Monsieur Dupries refused to give up his purse as they’d rehearsed, stating it was the king’s gold and he would not allow it to be taken by common thieves. When two of the thieves aimed their pistols at the tax collector, he quickly changed his mind and handed the satchel to Athos.

“We were promised something in return,” Athos stated as he balanced the bag of metal slugs on his thigh. 

The bandit turned his pistol toward the swordsman. “It seems we are no longer pretending. Give me the bag.”

The Musketeer calmly shook his head. “That was not the deal.” He held out a gloved hand. “The antidote.”

The bandit laughed, the sound dying in his throat as Aramis and d’Artagnan pointed their pistols at him, ignoring the other bandits reined in on either side of them. Porthos moved in front of Monsieur Dupries, blocking him from the sights of the bandits. The big Musketeer drew his sword with one hand, holding on to his pistol with the other. His eyes swiveled between the men along each side the others, watching intently, allowing his brothers to deal with the man in charge.

Athos wriggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. “The antidote,” he demanded again. “Or you will die, along with as many of your men as we can take.”

The bandit’s eyes narrowed. “We outnumber you two to one, Musketeer. Is the King’s gold worth your life?” he tilted his head toward Aramis who sat hunched in the saddle, his face pale, sweat running down his cheeks. “Is it worth his life?”

“Our lives are sworn to the crown,” Athos stated coldly. “We have agreed to turn the money over, but only if we see the antidote first.”

“Give it to him, Marcell.”

Athos turned to see the man they had spoken to in Paris approach from the tree line.

“It seems your friends are not honorable men,” Athos remarked. “Not surprising considering they are thieves, I suppose.”

Andre rode close to the others, holding out his hand and waiting expectantly until a small glass bottle was reluctantly handed over. Turning, he tossed the vial to Athos.

“Now, the money?”

“How do we know this is what you say it is?”

The bandit shrugged. “You don’t.” He glanced at Aramis, noting how the marksman’s hand was shaking, the grimace of pain pinching his face. “But I don’t see as you have a choice. Your friend is hardly in a position to wait. I guess we’ll just have to trust each other.”

“Trust is something earned, not given.”

Athos squeezed the vial inside his hand before heaving the bag toward the two bandits before him. As they reached for the satchel in unison, he pulled his sword and charged. Pistol shots sounded all around him but his focus was on Andre and Marcell, knowing the others would be able to deal with the rest of the bandits without his help.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan fired as soon as Athos charged forward, dropping one of the bandits from the saddle to his right. Another fell to his left and he looked toward Aramis, smiling as the marksman lowered the still smoking gun and pulled his rapier from its sheath. As soon as the blade cleared the leather, Aramis doubled over in pain, toppling from his horse and falling to the ground with an agonized moan.

“D’Artagnan!”

At Athos call, he turned toward the swordsman, barely catching the small vial as he tossed toward him. “Get Aramis back to the tree line! Keep it safe!”

The young Musketeer didn’t bother to acknowledge the order but quickly dismounted, avoiding the slash of a sword as it cut above his head. He reached up and yanked the arm connected to it, pulling the bandit from his horse and kicking him between the legs as he fell. The bandit landed with a thump on the ground, his hands going protectively to his groin, his eyes squeezed shut as he gasped for breath. Believing his opponent sufficiently cowed for the moment, d’Artagnan hurried to Aramis’ side, slid his hands under the marksman’s armpits and began to scuttle back toward the trees. 

He settled Aramis against a large oak, handing over the vial as well as his pistol. “Can you fire from here?”

Aramis nodded, throat working convulsively as he leaned his head back against the rough bark of the tree. His hands deftly found his cartridge pouch and he ripped the paper from the shot, poured it into the barrel of the arquebus and tamped it down without ever looking at the weapon once. Impressed, d’Artagnan would’ve commented if the situation hadn’t been so dire. Aramis tilted his head toward the skirmish. “Go, I’ll be fine. They need you.”

With a slap to his friend’s arm, d’Artagnan hurried back out to the road. 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos ducked as a ball came flying past, but the shot was well wide of its intended target and both he and Monsieur Depries remained unharmed. He heard Athos’ instruct d’Artagnan to get Aramis to safety and turned to Monsieur Depries who was ducking behind him, his eyes wide with fear.

“Go!” he instructed. “Follow d’Artagnan!”

The smaller man nodded vigorously and dropped from his horse, stumbling over his own feet as he scurried around the animal toward the far side of the road. Once he was safely away, Porthos spared one last glance at his retreating friends before spurring his horse forward toward Athos.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan dashed off just as the tax collector scrambled to the tree Aramis leaned against. He wiped the sweat from his face and smiled up at Dupries as he huffed to a squat beside him. “Are you having fun yet, Monsieur?”

Dupries rattled off a choked laugh. “This is not what I expected.” He flinched as Aramis aimed and fired, dropping a bandit trailing behind Porthos as he rushed to lend his sword to the melee. Dupries ducked down behind the tree, out of the line of sight, watching in amazement as Aramis once again deftly loaded the weapon.

“And what exactly were you expecting?” the marksman asked as he tamped down the ball expertly. His hands were shaking, his vision blurred, but he’d always boasted this was something he could do in his sleep. It was time for him to prove the truth of his claim.

“I don’t know,” the tax collector admitted, his voice pitched high in agitation. “It’s certainly much louder than I expected.”

“Battle is rarely silent,” Aramis assured him. “The ringing of steel, the thunder of hooves, the –“ a cry of pain stopped his litany and he bent over, clutching at his stomach.

“Monsieur Aramis!” Dupries grasped at the Musketeer’s arm, trying to prevent him from toppling to the ground. “Monsieur Aramis! What can I do?”

Aramis gritted his teeth against the fire enveloping his belly. There was an odd tingling in his hands and feet that was quickly spreading up his limbs making his movements fumbling and awkward. His hand spasmed and the pistol tumbled from his grip. He squeezed his eyes closed as the world tilted precariously, making the nausea in his stomach rise. Fumbling around in the dirt beside him, Aramis searched for the vial d’Artagnan had left with him. He had no idea if it was actually an antidote for the poison, but he feared he had no more time to delay.

“The… vial…” he managed to choke out between clenched teeth. Dupries scooped it up and laid it within his grasp immediately. He struggled to pull the stopper from the top of the small bottle, finally managing to force it from its perch with his teeth. As he brought the vial to his lips, Dupries grasped his arm, his eyes wide in concern.

“What if it’s not the antidote?”

Aramis suspected his grin was more of a grimace, but he hope it was enough to assure the man he understood the chance he was taking. “Then I fear I am dead anyway.”

Dupries huffed his acceptance and removed his hand, allowing the Musketeer to swallow down the liquid contained in the vial. As soon as it was empty, Aramis tossed it onto the ground and cried out as a pain unlike any he’d ever known overshadowed everything.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Outnumbered as they were, Athos and Porthos managed to disarm a few of the bandits, while d’Artagnan’s return to the fight turned the odds to their favor. They heard the bark of Aramis’ pistol in the distance, assuring them the marksman still lived and that he was still able to fight, protecting their backs with his uncanny aim.

As Marcell fell to Athos’ sword, the Musketeer noticed Andre working his way to the outer edge of the battle and Athos pointed his own mount in that direction. Knowing Porthos and d’Artagnan could handle the rest of the bandits, he spurred his horse onward just as the man turned and made a break for the trees on the opposite side of the road. His horse was quick, but no match for the Musketeers big Friesian stallion and Athos managed to ride him down before he reached the cover of the forest. Diving from his mount, he tackled the man to the ground, dimly thinking it a move that would’ve make Porthos proud. One punch was all it took and Andre lay dazed and unmoving beneath him.

Looking back to the road, he was relieved to see the rest of the bandits subdued, most lying either dead or wounded on the ground. Two still relatively unscathed men cowered on their knees under Porthos’ glare, their eyes held fast by the big Musketeer’s sword, unsheathed and directly in front of their faces, gleaming in the sun.

Andre moaned and the Musketeer stood, stepping back to allow his prisoner to roll to his side.

“I thought we had a deal,” the man groaned. “I thought a Musketeer’s word was his honor.”

“Only for those worthy of it,” Athos responded, unapologetic. “You do not qualify. Get up.”

He waited, sword held ready as the man struggled to his feet. Athos flicked the sword toward the road, following as his prisoner moved stiffly back to the others. Pushing him down to the ground beside the two d’Artagnan had finished binding, he raised a brow at Porthos, silently asking if he was all right. The big man nodded once, his scowl more than enough to keep the three prisoners cowed as d’Artagnan bound the newest arrival from behind.

“Monsieur Athos!”

The swordsman shifted his attention to the tree line on the near side of the road, his breath catching in his throat as he saw Monsieur Dupries wave at him frantically. The tax collector stood hunched over Aramis’ still body. The prisoners secured, he rushed through the tall grass, d’Artagnan and Porthos on his heels, hoping everything they’d been through had not been for naught.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos slid to a stop directly beside Aramis’ still form. Dropping his sword to the grass, his hands hovered above the marksman, for a moment unsure of what he would find if he touched him. Aramis’ damp hair fell across his cheeks, his eyes shut, his lashes dark against his pale skin. Porthos couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

He dropped to sit on the ground and carefully pulled his friend’s pliant form onto his outstretched leg. Cradling his head in the crook of his arm.

“Aramis?” Porthos brushed the errant curls from his friend’s face, frowning at the way the marksman’s head lolled against his arm. “Aramis? Come on, none of this.” He looked around frantically, noticing the empty vial laying in the grass a few paces away. His face hardened when he looked up at Dupries. “What happened? Did you give him the vial?”

They had no idea what the vial had contained, but it was obvious Aramis had already drained its contents, disregarding the need for caution.

“He was in such pain,” Dupries whispered, shaking his head sadly. He cleared his throat and met Porthos’ eyes. “He knew he was dead if he didn’t take the chance. There was nothing I could do to stop him.”

Porthos swallowed, nodding once at the truth of the man’s words. Aramis would never have waited for them, knowing if the antidote didn’t work, they would blame themselves for allowing him to take it. There was no other choice, but his friend would never force them to make the decision, taking the risk upon his own shoulders, effectively absolving them of guilt.

Athos placed his hand on Aramis’ chest, sighing in relief and grinning as he looked up into Porthos’ questioning eyes. “He’s alive,” he announced. “His heart is beating a bit too fast, but it’s strong.”

D’Artagnan dropped to the ground beside Porthos, nudging the big man’s shoulder at the news. “Perhaps our thieves were more honorable than we thought.”

“There is no honor amongst thieves, d’Artagnan. Everyone knows that.”

At the slurred words, four sets of eyes dropped to the man lying between them. Aramis’ eyes opened, listless, but clear. A sheen of sweat coated his face and his breaths came in short gasps, but he was smiling, and Porthos was suddenly light-headed with relief.

“There you are,” he returned his friend’s grin. “Was wondering how long you were goin’ to lay down on the job.”

“Just resting my eyes, mon ami.”

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked, his hand still flat against Aramis’ chest. Aramis brought his hand forward, weakly grasping Athos’ arm, squeezing it reassuringly.

“The pain is diminishing,” he admitted. “I no longer feel like there is a dagger driving into my belly.”

Porthos pulled his bandana from his head and used it to wipe the sweat from Aramis’ brow. “That’s good, yeah?”

“Quite.” Aramis hummed, closing his eyes as the bandana dipped to dry the moisture from his face and neck. As if he suddenly remembered where they were, his eyes shot open and he raised his head, trying to get a look behind Porthos and d’Artagnan. “The bandits?”

“Taken care of,” the Gascon assured him. He placed a hand on Aramis’ other arm, completing the circle. “We will take them back to Paris with us to stand trial.”

“I suppose we can count this a good day, then?”

Porthos chuckled. “Only you would count almost dying from poison a good day.”

Aramis smiled and settled back into the big man’s hold. “It’s the almost that makes the difference.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

They waited a few hours until they were certain the antidote was doing its job before herding the thieves into a group and setting out toward Paris. They’d been able to retrieve two of the bandits’ horses along with their own and had forced them to double up, securing them to the saddles to keep them from attempting an escape. Since Aramis was still too weak to ride, they placed him behind Porthos where he could lean on the big man, who held tight to the arms wrapped around him. They hoisted Andre onto Aramis’ mount, hands secured to the pommel of the saddle, a rope wrapped around his neck held loosely in Athos’ hand along with the reins.

Treville was waiting for them when they returned, assuring Dupries the other Musketeers had returned safely with the tax money and it was already deposited in the coffers at the Louvre. His majesty had been pleased they had been able to thwart the thieves’ plan and expected them all at the palace at their earliest convenience.

Having rested against Porthos’ comfortable back for the better part of the day, Aramis insisted they present themselves to the King so that they could celebrate their victory and waste no more time putting the trying events of the last few days behind them.

Standing before the King, the Musketeers could only bow in gratitude as His Majesty and the Queen applauded their bravery and loyalty. The Comte de Rochefort stood by the King’s side, much more restrained in his praise.

“Might I remind His Majesty that these men took matters into their own hands,” the Comte sneered. “It could easily have turned far worse, costing the country dearly in coin, not to mention the threat to Monsieur Dupries.”

“Yes, yes, Rochefort,” Louis continued to smile, waving a dismissive hand toward his new advisor. “But it did not cost a thing, and Dupries has assured me it was all very exciting.” He turned his attention back to the Musketeers. “You are all to be commended on a job well done.”

They bowed in unison. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Aramis caught the Queen’s questioning eyes and smiled softly, silently assuring her that despite his rather wan appearance, he was well or at least on his way. She returned the smile briefly before schooling her face, allowing the usual regal bearing to grace her features.

As they left the palace, d’Artagnan scoffed. “Didn’t cost a thing?”

Porthos grunted in agreement. “The cost was far too high in my opinion.”

Aramis noticed the pointed stares directed toward him and casually waved them away. “A bit of discomfort was a small price to pay to see Rochefort so put out.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “He did seem quite displeased with our success.”

“What do you want to do about Madame de Guiche’s role in all of this?” Athos asked as they made their way to the stables. 

Aramis knew Porthos had explained his position concerning the woman’s part in the entire scheme, but he understood Athos’ reason for asking. He had spent part of the journey home considering the Madame’s motives and found that while he wished she had been more persistent in her quest for the truth, he held no animosity toward her. She had acted out of grief, as much a victim of the Cardinal’s vindictive nature as Adele. 

“Nothing,” Aramis responded after a long silence. “She has lost enough already. I have no proof she was ignorant of their ultimate motive, but I know her grief was real and would like to believe she acted out of pain rather than self-interest. She was lied to, incensed to take drastic action she regrets. She will have to live with what she has done, just as I must live with my culpability in the pain Adele’s death caused. I don’t want to be responsible for causing her more pain.”

“And what about the pain she caused you?” Athos inquired. “You did not directly cause her misery, can you truly ignore the anguish she inflicted?”

Aramis stopped, forcing his friends to pause in their steps. They turned to face him as one, silently waiting for him to speak.

“I know the culpability for Adele’s death falls on the Cardinal’s soul.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, wincing as the aching muscles protested. “But I must accept that she would not have been in danger had we not been together.” He looked up at them, his eyes filled with remorse. “I did love her, but I was never in love with her. I know that now.” He glanced at Athos then turned his head, letting his eyes drift back across the palace grounds. “Perhaps it is time to lay the past to rest. The Cardinal is gone, Adele is gone and nothing I say or do will change that.”

“Are you sure you can do that?”

Aramis smiled at Porthos’ inquiry. “Yes. I believe I can now.” He stifled a yawn, rubbing a hand across his weary eyes. “I think I would like to return to the garrison and get some rest.” Lowering his gaze, he stepped past his friends and continued the trek to the stables.

“He’ll be all right, won’t he?” he heard d’Artagnan ask quietly as the others plodded along behind.

“’Course he will,” Porthos responded, his voice soft, but certain. “He’ll bounce back. He always does.”

He was gladdened to hear his friends so certain of his resiliency, but it was Athos’ response that nearly made him stop in his tracks. The swordsman alone knew why he could no longer allow himself to mourn a love that never was.

“Aramis’ heart will heal. It has no other choice.”

Adele was gone, but his heart belonged to another. And that love was just as doomed. Despite Athos’ conviction, Aramis had no doubt his heart would forever remain broken, but he would learn to live with it. His friend was right in one respect, there was no other choice.

 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos’ eyes remained locked on the back of Aramis’ bowed head, his friend plodding along ahead of him, d’Artagnan at his side, speaking softly, keeping him awake and aware. The mission had been difficult, tapping the marksman’s normally endless reserves and Porthos would like nothing better than to see his friend home, fed, and safely ensconced in a bundle of blankets, sleeping peacefully.

But there was something he needed to do first.

Aramis had made it quite clear that he held no animosity toward Madame de Guiche for what she had done, claiming to understand her need for vengeance – misplaced as it was. But Porthos had never been graced with the same capacity for forgiveness. Woman or no, grieving sister be damned… she had tried to take someone he cared about from him. That was not something he could forgive or forget.

“You cannot allow your anger to force you into doing something we will all regret,” Athos cautioned. The swordsman had been keeping pace beside him since they left the Louvre, obviously reading the intent Porthos attempted to conceal. The big man was not surprised, guessing the former Comte felt the same.

“We can’t just let her get away with it,” he rumbled. “She almost killed him.”

“But she didn’t,” Athos pointed out. “And Aramis has made his feelings quite clear.”

“That’s the guilt talkin’. You heard ‘im. He still holds himself as accountable as the Cardinal for what happened to that girl.”

Athos nodded sagely. “But it is still his life and his decision. If we were to take matters into our own hands again, he would never forgive us.”

“Yet he forgives her.”

Athos chuckled, a sad, empty sound. “Aramis is a walking dichotomy. Of this we are both well aware.”

Porthos snorted his agreement. 

Porthos rode in silence for a few more moments, the bustle of Paris a whirlwind surrounding him but unable to penetrate the dark mood that held him hostage. Finally, he pulled his horse to a stop, weighing Athos words against the need seated deep within him.

Athos pulled up in front of him, turning his horse but keeping his eyes on the slow tread of Aramis’ and d’Artagnan’s mounts. 

“Go if you must, but remember who you are, Porthos.” He tilted a head toward the two Musketeers moving away from them. “Remember who he is.”

Porthos took a deep breath and pursed his lips, meeting Athos gaze with a steely one of his own. “It’s because of who he is that I have to do this.”

To his surprise, Athos grinned. “Then be quick about it. I doubt we’ll be able to keep him contained once he realizes you’re gone.”

With a quick tick of his head, Porthos reined his horse to the right and headed down the narrow cobbled road alone.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Madame de Guiche settled herself in the coach, relieved to finally be leaving the city. It had taken her longer than expected to make arrangements to have Madelene’s remains exhumed and returned to their family home. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her sister in this godforsaken place – especially after learning the truth of her demise. The priests had been bewildered at her demands to have her sister’s remains moved, repeatedly reminding her that the great Cardinal Richelieu had made the arrangements for her internment himself. It had been all she could do not to lash out at the mention of the man’s name, telling them she would no sooner leave her sister in his care than a dog. They had been shocked at her insistence, but had finally relented, beginning the process of unsealing the tomb and arranging for transport.

Misled by the Cardinal’s representative, she had been made to believe the Musketeer, Aramis, was solely responsible for her sister’s death. While she had never questioned the man who had contacted her and brought her the information, she now knew she should have. Her blind trust had most probably cost a man his life – a man Madelene had loved and who, it would seem, had loved her in return. She deeply regretted what she had done and felt deep shame for keeping silent once she learned the truth. She should have told him, but what good would it have done? She had little knowledge of poison and had not asked what had been provided, convincing herself he deserved to be punished Madelene’s death. Would knowing have made it easier for him? Would it have given him a better chance to survive? 

At the time, fear of retribution had consumed her. She was loath now to admit her first concern had not been for the Musketeer, but for herself. How she wished she had been able to show even a trace of the compassion Aramis had shown for her sister, but her cowardice had consumed her and the Musketeer would pay the price.

Despite her fear of reprisal, she prayed that he had survived. It was not proper to run and hide, but she could not imagine herself in the Bastille, though she felt she deserved the punishment for misjudging the young man her sister had written to her about so long ago.

She clutched the small golden broach in her hand, the only thing she had left of her sister. It had been their mother’s, a sculpted rose with a tiny ruby in the center and Madelene had always said it was like being able to keep a piece of their beloved mother’s heart with her. Madelene had cherished it. She’d cried when she’d decided to leave it at home before returning to Paris years ago. As the last tangible connection to her sister, she had brought it along, hoping it would give her the strength to do what she’d believed must be done.

She had no excuse other than the grief of losing the one person she loved above all others. Her marriage was one of convenience, and it had been so easy to allow herself to become lost in Medelene’s letters, imagining the fêtes and silk gowns and magic of the King’s court. It was almost like reading a storybook, a fantasy, but one that her little sister was living. Madelene had seemed truly happy – especially after she began writing about the Musketeer. It wasn’t hard to imagine him from Madelene’s vivid descriptions, sometimes so tantalizingly detailed as to make her blush just reading the words.

But what Madelene hadn’t mentioned was his honor. More cynical than Madelene, she had assumed that despite the romantic narrative, Aramis had been simply using her sister, a dalliance, someone to spend the evening with to satisfy his needs with little regard to hers. But she’d been stunned at the young man’s grief when he’d realized who she was. His considerable sorrow at Madelene’s fate had taken her by surprise. She hadn’t expected him to remember her sister, let alone still grieve her death.

As much as she longed to know his fate, she could never inquire. There had been no investigation, no accusations, so she could only assume no one had discovered what had caused his sudden illness. She knew with certainty she would always struggle with the guilt of what she’d done. She only prayed that if somehow he had survived, he would find it in his heart to forgive her – for Madelene – knowing grief was what drove her to desperation.

As the last of the luggage was secured to the back of the coach, the door opened and a large man pushed his way through the narrow opening, settling himself on the opposite bench. She opened her mouth to protest that this was a private coach but clapped it shut when she noted the pauldron strapped to his shoulder. Her gaze snapped to his face and she instantly recognized the second Musketeer that had come to their aid in the street in front of the garrison the other day.

She also recognized the simmering anger in his eyes.

Eyes she could not hold.

“Bonjour, Madame.” The Musketeer’s greeting was cordial yet cold. 

“Monsieur Porthos, is it not?” She waited for the nod of assent before continuing, clasping her hands in her lap to control her trembling. “I have been expecting you.”

Porthos remained silent, but she could feel his eyes boring into her. After a few moments she took a deep breath, garnered all the courage she possessed and lifted her gaze to meet his accusing stare.

“Then Aramis is ….” 

“No.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of hope burning in her bosom. “He’s…” She couldn’t ask the question aloud, not knowing if she could accept disappointment if that flicker proved false.

“Alive. No thanks to you.”

Her breath stuttered from her chest, tears pricking at her eyes as the relief surged through her. “Oh, thank God,” she whispered. Bringing her clasped hand to her chest, Madame clutched at her scarf, wrapping the other over her lips to stifle the sob that threatened to escape.

Porthos remained quiet, watching her with dark, reproachful eyes.

Her voice shook with fear as she forced herself to speak. “Are you to escort me to the Bastille?”

The Musketeer’s jaw clenched. He shook his head. “No.”

“Then what? I assume that is why you are here. What is to be my punishment?”

The big Musketeer took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it before leaning forward, muscular arms balanced on his thighs. His position brought him closer, the smell of leather and musk enveloping the small space.

“Nothing is goin’ to happen to you,” Porthos responded, his voice a low, deep growl. “Aramis wouldn’t allow it.” It was obvious he did not agree but she was too consumed with relief to give it much thought.

“I am so sorry for what I have done,” she said earnestly. She wiped at the errant tear that slipped down her cheek. “I thought… I believed your friend responsible for Madelene’s death. I wanted… needed someone to blame.” She knew she was babbling, unsure how to stop but needing to at least try to make him understand. “A man came to me, telling me my sister had died because of a Musketeer. He told me Aramis was to blame and I remembered reading her letters about him. I know she loved him but Madelene was a frivolous girl and I believed him using her for…” She blushed, her voice faltering at the decadent words her sister had written. She glanced up, sincerity shining in her eyes. “I have no excuse except the grief of a sister, Monsieur. I misjudged your friend. I realized that when I spoke to him and he explained things.” 

She fumbled with her handbag, pulling a lace handkerchief from its depths and dotting at the moisture at the corners of her eyes. “By then it was too late and I… I panicked. I should have told him there and then but I was afraid… I…” Her voice broke, fear and regret choking her. “I am so very sorry. I was wrong and I will never forgive myself for the suffering I have caused.”

“Aramis cared very much for Adele,” Porthos admitted. His voice was still low but no longer hostile. Instead, she could detect a tinge of sadness in the deep rumble.

Madame de Guiche nodded in agreement. “I could tell from the look in his eyes when he spoke her name. He blames himself for not being able to save her.”

Porthos sighed. “Aramis protects the people he loves. That he couldn’t protect her will always haunt him.”

Madame de Guiche swallowed hard. “As my actions against him will forever haunt me.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Porthos shifted on his seat. “Aramis has had many women, but he has loved them with all his heart. I don’t know if Adele was different, but I do know he would’ve given his life for hers if he’d had the chance.” He leveled his gaze at her and she could see the fire return to his eyes. “He also has an infinite capacity for forgiveness.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep cleansing breath at his words. It caught in her throat a moment later.

“But I do not,” Porthos squared his shoulders, his bulk filling the small compartment. “I suggest you stay far away from Paris, Madame. If you ever return, I promise you I will see you held accountable for what you’ve done.”

Madame de Guiche flinched at the returned vehemence. Unable to find her own voice, she simply nodded, dropping her gaze as he moved to exit the coach.

“Monsieur Porthos?” she called before the door closed. She knew she could never make up for what she had done, but perhaps she could make a small gesture to show how much she regretted her actions. She reached out, holding the small golden rose with the tips of her fingers. “This was my sister’s. She cherished it above all else. I think she would’ve wanted Aramis to have it.”

Porthos looked skeptically at the broach, an eyebrow raised in doubt.

“Please,” She nestled the broach in his massive hand, closing his fingers around it and squeezing it tight. “I know it’s not much, but it’s all that is left of her. I know she would want it to be with someone who loved her.”

The Musketeer took a moment, but finally nodded his assent and stepped back, closing the door of the coach. 

As soon as the driver urged the horses forward, she covered her face with her hands and wept.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos handed the reins of his horse to the stable boy and wandered into the garrison, the small broach still clutched in his hand. He had wanted to remain angry with the woman who had caused them so much pain, but seeing her, feeling her grief and guilt, he finally understood why Aramis had been adamant about keeping her name out of things.

He stared at the golden rose, tiny in his hand. The fading sunlight caught the ruby in the center, glowing a deep red. It was a tiny stone, probably not worth anything, but it was pretty, a warm, dark color that reminded him of a sunset. He had no idea what Aramis was supposed to do with such a trinket, but knowing his friend, just the idea that it had been cherished by Adele would be enough to make it precious. They’d all seen how he treasured the cross the Queen had gifted him for his valor, he could only imagine how important a gift from someone he’d truly loved would be.

Looking up, he saw Athos waiting for him near the stairway leading up to the barracks. He wrapped his fingers around the broach, careful to keep it safe until he could deliver it to its rightful owner.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Athos pushed himself off the railing, his gaze traveling from Porthos’ face to the clutched hand he held out before him. 

Porthos considered the question, opening his fist and looking once again at the small golden broach, glistening in the fading sunlight. Tentatively, he nodded, surprised.

“Then may I suggest we join our friend before he makes another attempt to go after you?”

Porthos chuckled and started up the stairs behind Athos. “D’Artagnan sitting on him?”

“It was easier than picking him up off the floor again.”

“Well, I think we’ll be able to talk him into getting some sleep now.” Porthos smiled down at the tiny ruby. And maybe even a bit of peace.

fini


End file.
